Pavlovian
by Lyricalia
Summary: Post OoTP/AU. Can man resist the conditioning state? If possible, how can we do away with the last form of inner resistance? Come September First, Harry Potter didn't board the Hogwarts Express.


**PAVLOVIAN**

A/N: Thank you guys for all the reviews, favourites and follows! You make my day. Now this has become a one-shot, and there have been some changes, so please allow me tu suggest you read it from the very start. Thank you so much for your patience and support!

* * *

**And what can we do when that inner resistance is gone?**

**When the bell rings, **_**why **_**wouldn't you go take a break?**

I.

"Boy! Get down here _now_."

Harry sighed, setting his homework aside and quickly scurrying down the stairs and into the kitchen, bracing himself for danger at the menacing tone of his uncle's voice.

"Sir?"

"What's this?"

"Um, bacon, sir?"

"Of course it's bacon boy! Do you think I'm stupid?" He hit Harry with his hand on the side of the head. "What I want to know is why is there a piece missing? Petunia! How many of them did you buy?"

"Six, Vernon, you know Duddykins is on diet." Came his aunt's voice from the living room, malice mixed in her words.

"And why, pray tell, boy, there are only two left?"

Harry shuddered, knowing the answer, but just looked straight into his uncle's eyes. Truth only got him in trouble.

"I don't—"

"He ate it dad! I saw him!"

Suddenly there were hands on the collar of his big shirt, the bacon was flying onto the counter, and all he could see for one minute was the scowl on his uncle's face – the retort that, no, it hadn't been him, died immediately when is head hit the kitchen's wall three times.

"You're not welcome in this house, you should know by now. Not to my food, not to my roof, and certainly not into this family, boy."

He looked up to his uncle, fighting the dizziness he strongly felt, looked at the eyes of what he still thought as family, and then stared at the floor.

"Yes, sir."

"No supper for a week, and clean all this mess right now. Make it shine, or Petunia won't like it. You don't want to make her angry, now do you, boy?"

He shook his head, eyes down, and with an impassive face saw the retreating black, shiny shoes of his pleased uncle leave through the door.

"I don't, uncle Vernon. I don't." He said to no one, stood up, and made to clean the blood drops on the wall, forgetting about the wound. He looked at the bacon on the counter longingly, held it in his hand for a few minutes, and then placed the bacon back in the refrigerator.

Aunt Petunia had only bought five pieces of it— two for each member of the family, she had said mockingly.

"But just one for Dudders, remember? Diet, boy, diet."

.

.

II.

That scene repeated itself twenty seven more times through the summer.

Dudley didn't even lose a single pound. Petunia blamed Harry for it— Dudley ganged up on him with Piers, and beat the shit out of him. Even if he was almost fifteen, they had laughed, he was still so short and perfect for playing _Harry Hunting_, and assured him that they never, ever would replace him for anyone else.

Uncle Vernon lost an important client, blamed it on Harry too, and after sending him flying down the stairs, locked him back in his old cupboard with a broken clavicle, a bleeding lip, and some bruises.

"No lunch for a week, boy!" He had said, angry and frustrated.

Harry just assessed his wounds every time, and retreated to the safe, tiny and dark space of his cupboard. The voice of his uncle would come through the door, breathy and plain determined.

This time, he sounded like he had an epiphany, and was quite amused by it.

"I'll beat it out of you, boy. If you have to live here, I'll beat the freakiness out of you. And you will let me."

Harry just looked at the light streaming from the door's corners and curled into a ball, not daring to breath.

"You'll let me, boy. All that, all of _it_, don't worry, boy, I'll get _it_ out of you."

He had said, sounding quite out of it. Harry smelled alcohol in the air, but his uncle's voice couldn't sound more sober.

"I'll beat it, boy, even if I have to kill you."

And Harry believed him.

.

.

III.

Every time he completed his chores without screwing a single time, and nothing bad happened that could be blamed on his freakiness, he was allowed a five-minutes shower instead of three at night, and he could sleep in Dudley's old room, where the rest of his things were (except for his wand—uncle Vernon had it), along with Hedwig.

Every day he screwed up, uncle Vernon beat _it_ out of him, saying it was the cause of all of their problems, all of Harry's problems, and shut it boy, the neighbors might hear you. You don't want that, do you, boy?

"No I don't, Uncle Vernon, I don't"

He would say, and he'd be locked up without a bath or food in his cupboard for the night.

.

.

IV.

That day he had been too tired. The feeling had eaten away his will, his energy and Harry was sure it had gnawed deeply at his bones, too.

But uncle Vernon didn't accept that, he was livid when the list of chores was crossed just in four out of nine slots, and Harry yelped has he had been tightly forced upon the corner of the room. The bruises on his back had screamed at him, had burnt again, and he couldn't help it, he really couldn't keep up his bravery, his wall, his fortress up, everything inside—

"Please UncleVernon, please! I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I was just too tired sir, I'm sorry, it won't happen again, I don't want it to happen again, please sir, please, please, please…" He had begged desperately, his cries for forgiveness from the very bottom of his heart, from every bone that had yet not mended, from every hair that was being anxiously pulled by his hands, and from the naïve part of his soul that believes he can still make them love him.

Vernon had put his hand on his throat, dread freezing his stomach in half a second; no sound was heard, Harry's ribcage didn't even move. He looked at his guardian's eyes, slave and master met, and the latter smiled.

"See that it doesn't, boy. Tired like all of us, that's good. For today, I'll forgive you. Tomorrow I won't be so forgiving, child."

And he had gotten out of the room, leaving a confused but grateful Harry behind.

.

.

V.

Two more weeks, and the summer would end.

The last four days uncle Vernon had been brutal, his words a double edged sword, alternating between insults and uncommon praise, beating him senseless when he saw fit.

"Not you, just your freakiness."

He would add at every hit, every second and every day, telling him to just let go of _it_.

Now he was in his cupboard, still bleeding and in pain. Everything ached, but he remained silent, not letting the building anguish conquer his being. He knew there wouldn't be a next time; he knew he should ask for help.

He thought of Dumbledore and Remus. Of Ron and Hermione. He thought of Cedric, Sirius, Mom and Dad.

"Hedwig, Hedwig, where are you?"

Oh, right—he had sent her to stay at Ron's last week. Hadn't he?

But looking at the darkness, at the scattered ashes of his friends' letters at his side, at the old broken toys, the ripped _Harry's Room _banner…

He remembered how many times he had asked to stay at Hogwarts every summer, how Ron had rescued him in second year, how Madame Pomfrey always examined him, how Snape had seen his memories— and admitted that he had to concede defeat.

There was no one, and the only truth was that the magic in him would now get him killed.

.

.

VI.

"Boy."

His uncle opened the door, took him by the arm ignoring Harry's yelp, and seated him on a chair, in front of a plate of food. He took his nephew's face in both his big hands, moved it to one side, then the other, and grinned triumphantly at him.

He had been promoted at work, and Dudley had lost two pounds.

"You don't want this to be a fluke, do you, now?"

He turned Harry's head so it was facing the dish with two pieces of bacon. And Harry smiled, letting the weight of his head fall completely on his uncle's hands.

"No, Uncle Vernon, I don't'"

"Good. Oh, and Happy Birthday, boy."

.

.

VII.

Come September First, Harry Potter didn't board the Hogwarts Express.

.

.

VIII.

"Albus."

"Yes, Remus?"

"The wards around Number 4 Privet Drive, well, they're stronger than ever. Death Eaters can't enter but, well…"

"Speak up, lad!"

Mad eye's shout gathered the attention of every order member around the table on Lupin.

"The house is unapproachable except for the front door. Whenever we go and knock, it's always the aunt or the uncle who opens, and as fast as they say 'get out of here´, we are expelled far away from the house. Harry never opens the door, and he only goes out to work on the yard, and on those occasions, the barrier is at its highest. "

Hedwig hooted on the perch. Kingsley took from there.

"No owl can get past the wards now. Not even Hedwig. If we are not welcomed, we end up flying several feet away. Death Eaters can't enter—but neither can we."

"They say that, as of now, the 'boy is theirs to keep'".

Albus sighed, confused faces looking up to him for answers. Answers he didn't have, but could easily entertain.

"Severus?"

Snape shook his head, and the twinkle on Dumbledore's eyes died completely as he stood up, and everyone did the same.

"I hope you have enough boomslang skin in your storage, Severus."

.

.

IX.

"Welcome, Uncle Vernon" Harry said, took the coat handed to him, and stood to the side letting his guardian pass.

"Did you prepare everything? Perfection, boy, it's my boss and his wife in half an hour."

"Yes, sir. The table and dinner are done. Aunt Petunia is up with Dudley, they said they are coming down in a minute."

"Good."His uncle's gaze landed on him, going from head to toe, analyzing. His face scrunched, disgusted, and Harry felt apprehension grow inside of him, million thoughts flying through his head like a jumble mess, panic starting to grow in his veins and oh god oh god—

"Go change into something proper, boy."

Harry breathed again, and his uncle gave him a warning glare.

"You are serving us tonight."

.

.

X.

Everything was turning out perfect, and Harry's nerves were frazzled since he had opened the door and welcomed his uncle's boss and his wife into the house.

"Come sit, kid."

They had added another place on the table. His place.

"Y-yes Uncle Vernon."

They were eating, conversing, praise for the marvelous food dancing over Petunia, her fake modest laugh and polite manners making his boss's wife giggle along with her.

Dudley couldn't be more bored about it, especially because he was still on diet. He glared at the freak for that. Harry looked back at his cousin, a mocking eyebrow saying everything for him.

"Tell us, Harry dear, how did you get those bruises on your neck?" The wife asked, voice concerned, eyes strangely on Vernon.

Vernon froze, and Harry's right hand flew to his neck, to his shirt, pulling at the fabric trying in a futile attempt to cover the marks.

"U-um, I, well, you see, there are this bullies at school—they don't like me much and, well, you see—" He cleared his throat and smiled at her, trying to look convincing, palling visibly at the look her husband gave him. "Please don't concern yourself; Dudley defended me and my aunt already gave me something for them, aren't they the best?"

When the left eye of his uncle's boss pierced him and the right one fell onto the plate in front, Harry looked quickly back at the wife, and saw her intense eyes locked now with his.

Harry flinched, words stuck in his throat, and Petunia said as their features changed, horrified:

"Freaks!"

Two wands whooshed out, pointed at his uncle and aunt, ropes flying around his guardians, bounding them to their seats. Dudley stood up, jumping toward his mother, but was Petrified on the spot and went down with a "thump". Tonks rushed to Harry's side, taking his head in her hands.

"Dudders! What have you done to my son!"

"You freaks get out of my house! OUT! OUT!"

"Release us! Dudders! Dudley!"

Harry didn't react, closing his eyes and trying to take away his face from the searing hold. An intense dread settled itself on the pit of his stomach, and raw shame threatened to just make him pass out. He didn't understand why.

"He's not one of yours anymore! Leave us! Get your kind away from us!"

"Harry?" Tonks gently asked.

"Potter, help us! You don't want them here, do you, boy!?"

Harry got on his feet abruptly, away, and away, walking over to his uncle's side, hands tightening around the magical ropes and pulling desperately trying to release him, release them you freak, or you will regret it, you welcomed them in our house— nothing has changed! You haven't changed! _IT_ hasn't gone away, boy!

"Lad." Moody said gravely, coming down the stairs, having examined the house. Everything was in place, nothing out of order, except for the locks and blood on a room, blood on the cupboard, and of course, the boy. He glared at Dursley, and motioned for Harry to come to his side, were he had his trunk and wand.

The boy didn't.

"Potter…" He said lower, but Harry didn't even gaze up to him. "Incarcerous!"

Harry gasped, the ropes hurting his still battered body, the wards around the house flickering dangerously to just die, and he flew into Tonk's arms as a whimpering and trembling mess. They went through the door, and Dudley on the floor couldn't help but think Harry looked more of a prisoner in those ropes, than ever under his own hands.

.

.

XI.

Everyone looked at him with various degrees of hatred, curiosity, and relief.

Ron and Hermione had launched themselves at him, tears running down Mione's face, their words demanding, worried, and at last, stunned.

"I didn't want to come back!"

He had said, turned around on his heels, and run away from the Common Room.

When they found him in Myrtle's bathroom, sans Myrtle, Hermione had slapped him, Ron punched him in the shoulder, and then hugged him all night long, pleading to tell them what had happened— while caressing some bruises with tenderness unknown to him.

When he had been dragged back from the Dursleys, he landed immediately in the infirmary, and rumors had spread about his home life. Tattle tales. Someone had seen the bruises, the cuts, the damaged bones. Ron and 'Mione knew it was the truth, but not the whole of it.

"Nothing happened."

He insisted, but they didn't believe him. He was trembling, he knew, but couldn't help it. He didn't know what was up and down anymore, what was right and wrong anymore—all he knew is that he felt a blind desperation, a need to keep away from here, from everyone, because they were _freaks_ and he was not anymore, but they were his friends, have always been there, more than _them_, but they were freaks, they did magic, and everything, everything that was wrong, was because of_ it_.

He looked up at them, tried to summon some hatred, and failed. He hugged back, and for reasons he didn't understand, cried.

.

.

XII.

With Friday came transfiguration, and with that, the notion that Harry couldn't change a frog into a cushion. McGonagall said it was alright, we all have our days, but even if he has been stressed out, he should try harder.

Later, she commented on the incident in the Professor's Lounge, asking the others to have patience with Mr. Potter, please.

.

.

XIII.

"Bugger off, Malfoy!" Growled Ron, taking out his wand and pointing it directly at Draco and his cronies, mirroring their stance.

"Shut it, Weasel, sidekicks are of no importance to me." Draco said with a mocking smile, while rounding up on Harry. "So, is itty witty Potty sad about his horrible, horrible family not caring for him? Do those bruises hurt you? Are nightmares plaguing your sleep? Why, Potter, they saw what we always did—trash."

"Malfoy!" Screamed Hermione angry, taking her wand out too and pointing it directly at Draco's mouth. "If I were you, I would shut up, before I do more than just punch your nose."

Draco flinched at the memory, but the mention of it incensed him. The thing that had him most enraged was Potter's calm visage and the fact that he just stood there, not caring he was being threatened by three people and their ominous wands—for there was no sight of Harry's own in his hand.

"You should learn decorum, Mudblood. But what can we expect of a barbarian like you?"

Weasel started yelling profanities at him, waving his wand menacingly, and in Draco's opinion, failing quite well. But Potter, Harry Bloody Potter didn't as much as _blink_ when he called his friend the _way_ it would normally have gotten a rise out of him.

_But Potty is everything but normal, no?_

He saw it—Potter going for the wand on his pocket, hesitating, and then dropping his empty hand at his side.

In a bout of adrenaline Draco got past the Mudblood's and Weasel's wands, took Potter by the collar and banged him against the wall, the tip of his wand digging painfully in Harry's throat just above a fading bruise.

"Think you're so mighty, huh, Potty? Pity, the bloody savior can't even defend himself against his muggle, powerless and weak _uncle._"

In a blink of the eye Draco was the one against the wall held down by scrawny arms with force, Potter's eyes flashing green, green and red, dangerous, angry, and just, just frightful, Draco's wand digging deeper into Potter's skin, and he was thinking _oh shit _when is head hit the wall once, twice, three times.

Fighting the dizziness he focused on those eyes, then on Potter's moving lips.

"Don't you dare to talk about my uncle like that, Malfoy. Next time, you won't be so lucky. You don't want to make me angry, now do you, boy?"

And without waiting for a response or a comeback, he threw Malfoy into Crabbe and Goyle with much strain, lowered his shocked friend's wands, and started walking away.

.

.

XIV.

The nights were always the worst.

He knew it was too good to be true, their love. He knew it would not last, that he would screw up at some point, and they would hurt him as they've always done till last summer. He knew something was not right, with him, with it, with them. He knew _there was_ someone else, just _else_, but for the love he didn't have he couldn't see them, feel them, trust them.

Whoever _them_ were.

"Ssssei? Siu? Snape? Ugh."

Harry raised his eyes, and the light of the rising sun blinded him, blinding his desperation. His jaw grew tight, his mouth went dry, and his uncle screamed in his head, angry and disappointed. He felt a dense fog in his head and numbness in his bones.

He knew all of that better than anyone else. But he also knew that what he had wished for more than ten years had come somehow true. He had wanted it with such fervor, such need, he thought it would burn him inside out at one point. A family at last, with a roof over his head and food in his stomach. He was finally accepted.

And that was quite enough.

"Uncle Vernon…"

Harry closed the curtains around his bed, not letting the light inside, and decided to sleep his Saturday away.

.

.

XV.

With Thursday came Defense against the Dark Arts, Snape covering for the current Professor and making them duel in pairs. Malfoy attacked him, and Harry instinctively raised his wand, but no shield formed.

The last thing he saw before blacking out were Snape's dark eyes boring into his, deep understanding on them.

.

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XVI.

"Legilimens!"

The attack brought him to his knees. Snape's presence was in his mind, searching through his memories, touching them with his figuratively bare hands—poisoned, dangerous, stained. Like a snake slithering through his body, sensing him with his tongue, advancing slowly and threateningly, poised to attack.

It hurt, like it had never done before. This time Snape was not even pretending to teach him—the man came for something, and he would be damned if he didn't get it.

"Prf'ssor, n-no…"

_You won't tell, will you boy? If you so as fadom the idea of saying even the tiniest bit to one of those freaks at your school—_

_They can't know, child. The moment they do,_ it_ will come back to you. You don't want that now, do—_

"Stop! Stop!"

Why wasn't Snape getting out of his mind? Why wasn't he being thrown to the wall like past times? Why! Harry screamed in his head, anguished and embarrassed. He didn't want this bastard to see any of his memories, and much less to let the wizard get whatever the hell he wanted!

_Don't talk of them. Don't think of _it_. The less you do, the better things will get—You still have it in you, boy! What did we say! What! Don't—Whip, whip, a punch, his head on the floor and uncle Vernon saying not to name Sirius, to forget him, and concentrate boy on not to say, not to—_

"Potter!" The invasion stopped and he could only hear his breathing, and then he fell to the floor completely, looked over at Snape and he saw flames, angry flames engulfing the Potions Master.

And Harry knew it had been him.

"Stop it Potter!"

Horrified, Harry stared. Slowly he rose to his knees, trembling and sweating, panic seizing his every muscle. He had done it, it had come from him, and oh, oh, a fluke a fluke a fucking fluke!

"Potter!" Snape shouted, but Harry couldn't even hear him, instead clawing desperately at his neck, face and hair, pulling, as if trying to pull whatever was again on him, out. But then the burning smell was gone, and there was a slightly burnt Severus who snarled at him, took him by the shoulders and shook him five times—just to push him against the wall. Harry's eyes met his, just as the bastard muttered—

"Legilimens!"

—and Severus smirked, satisfied. He'll call Poppy later.

.

.

XVII.

That year, Harry James Potter didn't write his name on the list to remain at Hogwarts for Christmas, nor did he beg to remain at school for the summer.

But no student saw him leave, either.

.

.

XVIII.

The atmosphere in the kitchen at Grimmauld place was solemn, tense.

"Headmaster, I think we should tell him"

"Yes Remus, as do I. But I'm afraid Harry might get…quite affected by it."

"Oh, for the love of— Albus. Those bastard muggles abused him! Why would he be sad?"

"Because things are not that simple, Molly—ah, Harry, you're finally awake my dear boy. Why don't you come in here?"

Silence fell over the table while Harry came in and stared at them anxious from the door, not daring to get near them. Ron and Hermione stared at him with sympathetic eyes.

"What is it about the Dursley's?"

"Ah, well, Harry, why don't you sit first and have some breakfast with us?"

Harry shook his head and stared at Snape. The latter raised an eyebrow and sighed.

"The Dark Lord thought to send you a gift while you were on a dreamless sleep— the muggles are dead, Potter. All three of them."

Harry's blood ran cold. It was not possible. They were protected, weren't they? Weren't there wards? The frigging wards! Aurors! There must have been Aurors at his home, too, Headmaster! Oh god, oh no, it hurts, _it hurts_, was all Harry could think as every sound went to mute and every color faded to grey.

"Harry dear? Harry! Harry can you hear us! Harry, Merlin Severus call Poppy!"

Dead— like Cedric, Sirius, Mom and Dad.

And, as he looked into Dumbledore's deep untwinkling eyes and Snape's pitch black ones; as the world got upside down and his head banged on the tiled floor, as his scar opened and his sight grew red, the realization left him chilled, resentful, and stunned.

It had not been Voldemort this one time.

.

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XIX.

The fog in his head was up, the numbness in his bones quite deep, and this time there was a black pitch in the middle of his chest.

The letter was closed, badly written with a trembling hand, spotted with dry tears, addressed to two people, and passed to Hedwig.

.

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XX.

Snape looked up at him, smirk so bright it deformed his face, and stared at him like a predator. They were the only two at the dead Mutt's house. Potter's friends were forcefully convinced the boy needed more solo training.

At the very last, the boy's inner mind map was revealed to him.

Oh, the power of one.

It amused and chilled Severus at the same time. But he'll save the boy's life first as he had sworn, and then his mind would come along. He looked at Potter's red rimmed eyes, and imitated Vernon Dursley's damming voice.

"You'll do magic, boy, or I'll be angry. You don't want to make me angry, now do you, boy?"

And Harry, eyes wide, shook his head automatically.

.

.

XXI.

"Hedwig!" Harry admonished hard, sending a scathing look at the tired bird.

The letter addressed to two people was lying on his desk, unopened. There was no receiver to find. She had tried, she really, really had.

Hedwig didn't get to eat from Harry's hand for a whole week.

.

.

?.

_Dear Aunt and Uncle,_

_Please forgive me for using a freak's way of communication, but there's no other way that I could reach you! Please forgive me!_

_I've been doing well. _It_ hasn't come back. Well, just once, but Snape was trying to read my mind and see proof of what you say they can't know. But, uncle—_

_They say you're dead. They say you…_

.

.

XXII.

The Dark Arts. Defensive spells. Martial arts, transfiguration, restorative potions – the boy was taught any and everything that would help him come alive from this.

If only the boy didn't need the frigging phrase spoken to him every time to do magic! Prophecy or not, Severus didn't care anymore, the soon-to-be sixteen year old child would do his task and come triumphant.

The Potions master breathed, and banged Potter's head against the vacant library's wall, once, twice, three times.

"You'll do magic, boy, or I'll be angry. You don't want to make me angry, now do you, boy?"

"No sir, I don't."

.

.

XXIII.

The dense fog had his uncle's face. Every feature was clear.

"We have to get rid of it, all of it boy. We love you. We are not dead, we are everywhere were it isn't. You don't want this to be a fluke, right boy?"

Harry's green eyes were desperate as his head and voice said no, no, if it is here, then you wouldn't be, you'd be gone, I don't want you gone, so no, no –

"But Harry, all mudbloods and halfbloods have it."

He froze eyeing his hands, his wrists and where his heart lay.

Narrowed, malevolent eyes stared at him.

"You'll let me, boy. All that, all of it, don't worry, boy, Tom will get it out of you, even if he has to kill you."

And then there was his Aunt and Dudley and Tom along his Uncle, kind and loving arms welcoming him.

"For today, I'll forgive you."

Harry breathed, and closed his eyes.

.

.

XXIV.

They had won.

Death eaters running away, trying to escape the hell that they were in deep now. But no one could get away now, not even the light side that was looking in absolute rapture at him, the triumph sweet in their tongues. They had won.

Hermione and Ron in each other arms, kissing in between the blood and grinning at him.

_We have to get rid of it, all of it!_

No, no, they hadn't won, murmured a sultry voice in his head_. I_ did.

_You don't want it to be a fluke, do you, boy?_

High above on the hill, Harry turned on his heels, and peered down at the worshipping wizards.

"No, Tom. I don't."

_Good. _

_Oh, and Happy Birthday, _boy.

He raised his wand, his eyes glowed red, and Harry smiled.


End file.
